Soaring
by DobbyLovesSocks
Summary: When Hannah was four, she painted her first picture. Years passed, but she never let go of the brush.


**A./N. Written for the semifinals of Fire The Canon's Fanfiction Challenges Tournament, using the prompts _carriage_ and _walking stick_.**

**Word count- 1417**

* * *

All her life, Hannah has loved to paint. When she's just a year old, she discovers a love for fingerpainting, and she can go for hours simply putting paint on paper with her chubby little hands. By the time she turns four, she has begun working with watercolours, and is almost always found clutching a paintbrush. Hannah takes a piece of paper from the big stack by her bed, and this is when she paints her first true picture.

"I'm gonna paint me in my carriage," she says decisively, dipping the brush in the cup of water sitting on the newspaper that has become a layer of her bedroom floor. Transitioning out of her baby carriage had been very exciting for Hannah. She liked the feeling of being pushed around and the slight vibration of wheels on pavement, and it wasn't until she was almost four years old that she finally agreed to start walking like a big girl.

It takes her almost an hour to paint it, which is a long time for a four year old (but after all, Hannah's always been known for her patience). When she's finished, she beams at the final product.

"Mummy, Daddy, c'mere!" she shrieks, her voice carrying down the stairs. "I drew a picture!" Her father ruffles her hair and calls her _My little artist,_ before going back downstairs to finish cooking dinner, but her mother stands there, staring. It's not perfect by any means. The paint is dripping and messy, and the entire thing is shaped a bit like a piece of chewed up bubblegum, but it's almost certainly recognizable as a baby carriage, and the little girl sitting in it is clearly Hannah.

"Hannah, sweetie, that's fantastic!" her mother exclaims, and Hannah's blonde pigtails bounce as she jumps up and hugs her mother. "And in a few years," Mrs. Abbott whispers into her daughter's hair, "You'll be able to have much better than these watercolours. Hannah, love," her mother adds, looking at her daughter, "Why did you decide to draw your old carriage, of all things?" Hannah looks at her mother, her blue eyes wide.

"Because when I was little, I used to sit in the baby carriage. I'm a big girl now, but I don't want to forget how I used to be."

Mrs. Abbott stands there, dumbfounded, wondering when her baby girl had become so wise.

* * *

When Hannah is seven, she gets her first real set of paints. There's red and purple and blue and grey and pink and yellow and green, and her fingers are tingling as they grab the paper and she begins to sweep her brush across the page. For a while, she just _paints._ She paints lines and curves and flowers and clouds and stars and trees in every colour of the rainbow until there isn't room for a drop more paint. Then she calls to her mother, "Mummy? I'm going outside," before gathering everything she needs and stepping out the back door.

Once outside, Hannah falls onto the bright green grass and inhales the scent of flowers and soil and grass. Then she rolls onto her stomach, taking hold of the paintbrush once again, and takes a small photograph out of her pocket.

In the picture is a little girl, only five or six months old, sitting in a carriage, eyes wide, and giggling. Biting her lip, Hannah begins to paint herself in the carriage once again. The feel of the paint on paper, creating images that were once just vague ideas in her head, is something she has never experienced before. It makes her feel weightless, like she's soaring through the pictures she creates, like the world around her is spinning in the best way possible. It's something that Hannah, quiet, cheerful, calm little Hannah, has never experienced before. After about half an hour, her mother comes outside and puts a hand on her head.

"It's too windy out here, Hannah," she says. She says the wind is too strong, but Hannah thinks maybe she's just afraid to take off for the sky. So she shakes her head and sucks in her cheeks and delves back into utmost concentration. And she's loving every minute of it.

* * *

All throughout her first year at Hogwarts, Hannah has been getting homesick. The first night she comes back after Christmas, she's sobbing uncontrollably, wishing her mum and dad were there to comfort her instead of Susan and the rest. Finally, she gives up hope of sleeping, and whispers "Lumos," lighting her wand at the tip. As she takes out her painting supplies, Hannah feels the knot in her chest loosening a bit. She takes a piece of paper and begins to draw everything that makes her think of home. She draws potatoes and chicken for her father's cooking, and smiling faces for her mother's constant cheerfulness. She draws hearts and stars and flowers all around, and in the centre of it all is a baby carriage.

She thinks it's her best one yet.

But this time, instead of being _in _the carriage, she stands next to it, jumping in the air and giggling as enormous, blue-green waves come in and spray everything, washing over her childhood.

Her childhood is drowning, and she's the only part left.

Well, herself and the carriage.

She hangs the painting next to her bed and she looks at it every night. All of her friends tell her how good it is, and how amazing of an artist she is, but Hannah doesn't have it up for the attention. She's a Hufflepuff; Hufflepuffs don't do that. She has it up to remind her of life at home, and on the nights when she misses it most, the painting calms her down. For the rest of her life at Hogwarts, she keeps the painting on her wall. By the time she finishes Hogwarts, it's become a sort of memento to her. Every night before she goes to sleep, she looks at it, up until the night of the battle.

The night of the battle, part of the castle goes up in flames.

She never sees the painting again.

* * *

Many years later, Hannah is no longer the young woman she once was, but she's doing alright in old age. There are only a few wrinkles on her face, and her hair still hints of gold. On the wall by her bed hangs two paintings- the carriages she painted at ages four and seven, and she smiles every time she sees them. On the wall on the other side of the the room hangs a collage of bright blue bubblegum wrappers, spelling out the word "Mum." Hannah gently brushes her hand against them, shaking her head.

"I miss you, Nev," she whispers. "Every day." The clearest way she can remember him is through her art, so when he passed just under a year ago, she hung up her favourite painting of him next to the wrappers. She gently presses her lips to it.

The night is quiet, and Hannah takes out her paints for the first time in nearly a week. Lifting the paintbrush, she realises how weak she has been feeling lately, but continues anyway. For several hours, she paints in silence, not getting up once. When she's finished, she smiles sadly at the end product. A final carriage stands before her, and this time she's beside it again, leaning on a walking stick because it's a struggle to stand by herself. Hannah hangs this one next to the others, leaving a gap in between for the one she lost. Seeing herself go from sitting in a carriage as little more than a baby to an old woman leaning on a walking stick is intriguing, Hannah thinks. She couldn't stand on her own then, and it's a struggle to, now. After a moment, she finds tears springing to her eyes and walks outside. She sits down on the porch swing and lets it rock back and forth in the wind.

"Mrs. Longbottom!" a voice calls out suddenly, as Hannah looks over to see her next-door neighbour waving from her lawn, "It's awfully windy outside, are you sure you want to be out here?"

Hannah smiles in response.

"You say it's too windy, I say people are too afraid of lifting off the ground," she answers, her voice carrying clearly across the yard. "And if one thing has stayed the same after all these years, it's that I'm not afraid to fly."


End file.
